Wednesday, November 19, 2008

Harbour View

Rise, brothers, rise, the wakening skies prayto the morning light,The wind lies asleep in the arms of the dawnlike a child that has cried all night.Come, let us gather our nets from the shore,and set our catamarans free,To capture the leaping wealth of the tide, forwe are the sons of the sea.

No longer delay, let us hasten away in thetrack of the sea-gull's call,The sea is our mother, the cloud is our brother,the waves are our comrades all.What though we toss at the fall of the sunwhere the hand of the sea-god drives?He who holds the storm by the hair, will hidein his breast our lives.

Sweet is the shade of the cocoanut glade, andthe scent of the mango grove,And sweet are the sands at the full o' themoon with the sound of the voices we love.But sweeter, O brothers, the kiss of the sprayand the dance of the wild foam's glee:Row, brothers, row to the blue of the verge,where the low sky mates with the sea.